“I don’t give a shit.”
She smiled sweetly and asked, “But would you at least answer a few questions?”
He did not appear happy at this prospect, yet reluctantly said, “You bein’ family, a few.”
“Thank you.” She paused a moment and then asked, “Did you return to the murder site and resweep the scene in daylight?”
“Yeah. We quarantined the site last night, then came back with a full forensics team. We even brought dogs.”
“Was any new evidence discovered?”
“Not a thing. Sterile site.”
“I called in permission this morning for an autopsy. Has it been conducted?”
“This afternoon. But toxicology and lab results won’t be done till next week.”
“You were present?”
He nodded. “Required to be.”
“What were the results?”
“Hemorrhaging around the pupils, severe bruising on her left and right clavicles… the preliminary verdict, subject to the lab results, death by asphyxiation brought on by the fracture and dislocation of her vertebrae.”
I watched Janet’s face to see how she responded to the clinical description of her sister’s death. Indeed, this was tough territory, and I found myself swallowing hard. But Janet nodded and suggested, cool as a pin, “Then allow me to reconstruct for a moment. One hand pinned her throat to keep her from screaming while the other twisted her head around to break her neck, right?”
“That seems to be the technique.”
“And which direction was her head twisted?”
“The right.”
“Indicating a right-handed killer, correct?”
“Most likely.”
“Further indicating the murderer was a male, correct?”
“It takes great strength to snap a neck.” In other words, yes.
She asked, “Any particles or skin in her fingernails?”
“Yeah. There was.”
“Skin?”
“Deerskin.”
“Then the killer wore gloves.” He nodded again, and she then hypothesized, “The gloves were to protect against fingerprints.” When he didn’t respond to that, she suggested, “And from that, is it safe to assume the murder was premeditated?”
“From that, it’s safe to assume it was cold. I wore gloves.”
They stopped dueling for a moment to catch their breath.
Janet’s courtroom experience and technique were evident and impressive. She understood the trail of evidence in a murder investigation, what questions to ask and which to avoid. Some lawyers are very good at this. Some lawyers should consider a different line of work.
Spinelli, no hump either, had stuck obstinately to the facts and displayed impressive restraint when she tried to prod or lead him into conclusions and conjecture. All in all, he was a tough egg to crack.
But I’m as competitive as the next guy. I searched my brain for what she’d left out, and then asked Spinelli, “Have you searched her car yet?”
“Yeah… her car. There was some nondescript smudge marks on the side, from the struggle probably. That’s it.”
“No fingerprints, no footprints, no hairs?”
“Didn’t I just say only smudges?”
“Right.” Prick. I asked, “And your best guess at motive?”
“Theft. A woman workin’ late… comin’ out into an empty parking lot… her purse stolen-”
“That’s really your conclusion?” Janet interrupted.
“That’s really my working hypothesis… and all that implies.”
“But why would a thief kill her from behind?”
“Who says it was only one? There coulda been a backup man. In a public parking lot, breakin’ her neck that way-no noise, no attention, no evidence… Makes sense, right?”
Yes, it did. And Janet replied, “Perhaps.”
I said, “So what’s next, Mr. Spinelli? What are you doing to find the killer?”
No cop likes to be asked this particular question. It’s smacks of accountability, and public servants are allergic to the entire concept of responsibility and liability. But sometimes it’s because they have good and well- thought-out plans and don’t want them compromised. Other times it’s because they haven’t got a clue. They intend to tie all the proper procedural bows and knots, and wait breathlessly for the next crime so they can stuff this one in the unsolvable drawer.
Spinelli regarded me a moment, then replied, “If it’s a robbery, the killer was probably some punk from D. C. or the suburbs. I’ve notified the local authorities and asked for lists of known felons who operate this way. I traced her charge cards and military ID and notified the Post Exchange and Commissary to be on the lookout. I notified her banks that if there’s any attempts to charge on those cards, I’m to be informed.”
In short, everything Spinelli’s procedures required when the felony is robbery. He probably had a file reserved in the unsolvable drawer.
Janet asked, “And do you expect to get anything?”
“I’m optimistic.”
I glanced at Janet and she glanced back at me. Bullshit.
I said to Spinelli, “Do you really expect him to be idiotic enough to use her charge cards?”
“Crooks do all kinds of stupid shit. It’s why they’re crooks.” Spinelli then bent forward and asked, “We done yet?”
“Yes, thank you,” Janet replied. “You’ve been very helpful.”
He smiled. Then he stated, “Let me be even more helpful, then. I catch you or him stickin’ your toes in this, I’ll slap you both with charges for obstructin’my investigation. We clear on this point?”
She conceded, “It would be hard to be more clear.”
His rodent eyes turned to me. “You clear on this point?”
“Oh… me? I’m the chauffeur, right?”
He gave me a nasty, distrustful squint, then looked at Janet and added, “Also, I’d get very pissed to discover you withholdin’ relevant information or evidence. Should I explain the deep pile of shit that can get you into?”
“I’m aware of the penalties, Mr. Spinelli.”
Before you knew it we were all shaking hands, pleased to have had the pleasure of one another’s company we all agreed, which was, of course, bullshit. Nor did Spinelli offer to escort us out of the station, which struck me as perfectly in character. In fact, the session had gone pretty much as I had anticipated-a waste of time-and Spinelli had been every bit the unlikable asshole I recalled.
Outside, walking through the parking lot, I asked Janet, “Did you get what you wanted?”
“I got what I expected.”
“Which was what?”
“Confirmation.”
“Go on.”
“They’re headed in the wrong direction.”
It struck me that Miss Morrow sounded more certain about this than me. If, in a day or two, some hophead was apprehended in D. C. for charging a stereo or something with Lisa’s charge card, I could live with that. Eight years of trying criminal cases had taught me that first impressions are often wrong impressions, and clues that may appear very complex often turn out to have very simple solutions. But I detected no hint of doubt in Miss Janet Morrow and I obviously wondered why. Wanting to find out why, I asked her if she wanted a drink, but she begged off, claiming it had been a hard and emotionally draining day.
It had indeed.
